Pineapples To The Hundreth Power
by Clara A. Rose
Summary: The one hundred themes challenge for Psych. Unconnected one-shots for prompts. Lots of Shawn, Juliet, and combinations of the two. Some fluff, some whump, the occasional sprinkle of angst.
1. One: Introductions

**First off, I don't own Psych. Sigh.**

**Second, this is probably going to be one of the longer one-shots. It's set after Shawn and Juliet are married and... yeah. **

**Prompt: Introduction**

Adrenaline coursing, Juliet waited a second. . . then tackled the perp from behind. Lassiter darted out from the other side and grabbed the perp's wrist, squeezing so tightly he released the gun.

Five feet in front of them, Shawn left out a huge breathe. "That was a close one," he said, squinting at them. "I almost thought you were gonna let him shoot me."

"You volunteered to be the bait," said Lassiter offhandedly, glossing over the fact that it was him who had volunteered Shawn. "And don't give me ideas," he added.

Juliet, knowing that her partner could more than handle the perp, stood up and went to give her husband a hug. She'd never admit it, but that time had felt a little too close for comfort. For once, Shawn wasn't exaggerating- two more seconds and there might have been a bullet hole through his chest.

Shawn looked down at her. "When are you going to start deskwork?" he asked. To most people, this would have seemed a casual question, but Juliet could hear Shawn's worry.

"Soon," she promised, "One more case."

Shawn half-chuckled, half-sighed. "You keep saying just one more. Soon, your belly will be so big we won't even be able to hug, and you'll be begging for one more case."

"No, I'm going to do it." She paused. "After one more case."

Shawn stepped back and grinned at her. Then he held his hands away from his stomach and pitched his voice high, to imitate a very pregnant Juliet. "Just one more case, Chief!" he squeaked. "Ooh, I think I'm going into labor! One more case!"

Juliet hit him in the arm, even though she was smiling. "Shut up, Shawn."

Lassiter, as he walked by with the handcuffed criminal, put in, "Yes, shut up, Spencer."

"Good luck getting back into my good graces!" Shawn called after him. "At this rate you'll never be a godfather!"

But once Lassiter had gotten into his car, Shawn turned back to his wife, looking a little more serious. "But really, Jules, please?"

She sighed. "Fine. Just let me have one more case."

"Fine." He smiled, wrapping his arms around her again. "But whether this kid is born in a hospital or at a crime scene, with us as parents, it's sure gonna get one hell of an introduction to the world."

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	2. Five: Unbreakable

**I don't own Psych. **

**Okay, there are one hundred prompts. I am going to do all of them... just not in order. I was gonna do them in order, but Number Two is kind of boring, and the plot bunny for this was chomping on my brain, so...**

**I present you with Prompt: Unbreakable **

Shawn struggles, though he knows it's in vain- if the rope was going to break, it would have by now. All he's accomplishing at this point is to hurt his wrists. But he keeps pulling, because the alternative would be giving up.

Suddenly, he's aware of his captor behind him, despite the darkened room. It's a woman, he can tell from the flowery perfume she wears and the delicacy of her breathing.

"Hello, Shawn," she whispers, only reinforcing the results Shawn has already gotten from the Creep-O-Meter that he didn't know he had.

"Hey," he replies, pleased to hear that although his voice is rough, at least he doesn't sound scared. "So, lady, are you going to tell me why you kidnapped me?"

She giggles. "Oh, Shawnie, you of all people should know." He's already started racking his brains for any woman he might have offended before she adds, "You are psychic, after all."

Crap. There went the hope that he might have been kidnapped at random. Still, maybe he can work this to his advantage. "You conking me on the head may have jumbled up my visions- the stuff I'm getting right now looks suspiciously like a clip from Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

"Oh, do I have to tell you?" She sounds disappointed. "How tiresome."

"No, no," said Shawn, "Once you get past the horrible special effects, Monty Python really is a good-"

"Not Monty Python!" she snaps impatiently. She sounds a little like Lassiter, and Shawn feels strangely comforted by that. The comfort is, unfortunately, weighed out by worry at how quickly she's changing moods.

This worry is proved to be correctly placed when Shawn feels something cold and sharp tracing his collarbone. It's too dark to see, but he can tell without seeing that it's a knife.

She breathes into his ear, "Listen, Shawn. I think you're a great detective, really I do. You're probably even a fairly okay guy. But my daddy can't risk being found. And he told me to make sure that you were out of the way." She pauses, tracing across his chest with the knife. The hand that isn't holding the knife is gripping his shoulder, the fingers splayed. It's almost as cold as the knife.

Shawn stays perfectly still. Even when the girl- now that she's practically draped over him, he can feel that she's too small to be a grown woman, she has to be less than sixteen- starts giggling again.

She tilts her head a little closer and murmurs in his ear again, her words laced with girlish joy. "Daddy told me to get rid of you." she says, "But he never said we couldn't have a little fun first."

Shawn pales. "I guess," he manages, "we don't have the same definition of fun? 'Cause I'm totally up for waterslides and pizza, if you want to-"

He isn't psychic, but he can hear her smiling.

"Oh, no," she says softly, "My idea of fun. . ." The knife that had been resting on Shawn's collarbone moves up his neck to caress his cheek. ". . . is showing you how breakable you are."

Shawn stiffens, feeling his heart jump in response to her words. He closes his eyes, though it doesn't change the light much. _Think about Jules_, he tells himself. _Think about Gus. _

He's thinking about them, but that doesn't stop it from hurting when Miss Psycho Teenager 2012 plunges the knife into his shoulder.

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	3. Six: Obsession

**Still don't own Psych. Also, this one is very, very short, so the next chapter will be soon. **

Shawn couldn't sleep again, and he knew why. Carefully, so as not to wake Juliet or the baby, he crawled out of bed and tiptoed in his bare feet to the bathroom. The floor was cold, but Shawn had to make sure.

Once there, he flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness, even though he'd been expecting it.

He stared into the mirror, seeing as he did so the dark circles under his eyes. But those didn't matter, not then. What mattered was. . .

Shawn was always a little vain, and this was crossing a line. Lassiter could not be right. Because Lassie being correct was physically impossible. Shawn didn't care that genetics were kind of against him, he was certain this wasn't happening.

Shawn knew he was obsessing, and he didn't care. Taking a deep breath, he tilted his head down and peered into the mirror. After a second, he sighed in relief.

Lassiter was wrong. So were genetics. Shawn's hair definitely wasn't receding.

. . .

. . . Right?

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	4. Eight: Gateway

**Psych is still not mine. **

**I realize that this story hasn't got a lot to do with the actual prompt (Gateway, prompt eight) but I couldn't resist. Also, Gus needs a turn speaking. He was getting lonely. It's written in present tense, which I intend to do more of, because fun!**

Gus must look worried, because the old lady laughs. "Don't worry, love," she says, "I only need you for a bit. You're my ticket to get on that plane."

Her accent is bouncy- Irish, maybe? Scottish? It makes her seem even more grandmotherly- a feeling somewhat derailed by the loaded gun held casually in one hand.

"Um," says Gus, wary, but not afraid yet. "What happens to me after you get on the plane?"

She chuckles, "What do you normally do with a ticket, lad?"

Gus, slightly miffed at being referred to as a 'lad' when he is clearly an adult, replies honestly, "I fold it up carefully and put it away so I can add it to my collection."

The old lady's eyes sparkle. "Not me, dearie. I'm the rip-it-to-pieces-when-I-get-bored type. Like that friend of yours, I believe."

Too right. No matter how many times Gus berates Shawn, he always ends up shredding tickets and forgetting to recycle them. But that's not exactly Gus's biggest concern at the moment.

"Stand up, dear." she directs. Gus has had it up to her with her cute little British endearments, but it's just sunk in that this woman has a gun, and no matter how grandmotherly she may look or seem, she's actually a wanted criminal. So he does as he's told.

"Lovely," she says, positioning herself behind him so that the gun can be hidden in her shawls but still pointed at Gus. "Now, lovey, we just need to get through that gateway, and I'm home free. You. . . well, we needn't get into that."

She nudges Gus forward and begins to walk. The gun is cold on Gus's back, and he's glad he wore a sweater today. (Gus's mind tends to latch on to inconsequential things when he's nervous.)

For instance. . . Look, there's a pineapple on that table. Not a real one, but it's strangely comforting. It makes Gus think of Shawn. Even if Gus's reaction to Shawn right now would be to hug him and then punch him in the face for getting him into this situation in the first place.

He looks up toward the gateway they have to go through. It's not far. People are pushing past them to get where they want to go, but the only people Gus can see who seem to be planning to go through the same gate as him and the lady is a young couple.

The young woman's face is hidden in shadows under a straw hat with a huge brim, and just a little blond hair is peeking out the back. The man is a little taller than her, with a sturdy build. His hair isn't visible under the beanie he's wearing. Gus can't see his face under his sunglasses.

Suddenly, Gus realizes how familiar the man's confident gait is. The jacket the man is wearing looks an awful lot like the one he bought Shawn for his birthday. There's a bulge under the woman's coat that looks a lot like a gun. She's resting her hand casually on her hip, just like Juliet does when she's checking that her weapon is still there.

Gus's eyes flicker between the pineapple and the couple and he fights the urge to laugh. Instead, he wrestles down his grin and keeps his face straight. Shawn is here. That means it's going to be fine.

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	5. Eleven: 33

**Right. Okay. Psych... not mine. **

**Prompt Eleven: Thirty-Three Percent. Here we go...**

Shawn was going to live, he just knew it. Well, ninety percent sure.

Of course, someone would have to find him first, because this bullet wound wasn't going to fix itself. Probably. The novelty of being shot would be about equaled by that of being magically healed.

Although, that being said, the novelty of being shot was somewhat detracted from by the significant pain of being shot. Shawn could say first-hand that bullets did not hurt less the oftener you got hit with them. In fact, this one hurt even more, probably because it hit in the middle of his chest as opposed to his shoulder. (Shawn was still trying to process that there was a _freaking hole_ in his chest.)

Shawn was gonna live, though. He was, like, seventy-two percent sure.

There was surprisingly little blood. Shawn was marginally pleased about this. He had, after all, stolen Gus's shirt that morning. As much as he enjoyed annoying his best friend, Shawn probably shouldn't add to the stress of Gus's day by being shot _and _ruining his best shirt. Best keep it down to one, preferably the second.

Somewhere around the time he thought that, breathing became rather harder. Painful, for one. And it made him sound all weak and raspy. Shawn supposed he was.

But. . . he was definitely going to live. He was, like, fifty-one percent sure.

_Maybe_, thought Shawn, _I'm going into shock. _Because, suddenly, the place where the bullet had hit him was starting to hurt a little less. He wasn't entirely sure if that was good or bad. It just felt kind of strange, really, being able to see that there was a hole in his chest, but the hole in question not really hurting.

Shawn blinked sleepily. With the pain of his wound gone, what he wanted most right now was to have a good long nap. There was a little creature in his head telling him that if he went to sleep now, chances were he wouldn't wake up. But the creature sounded like Lassiter, so Shawn ignored it.

As blackness crowded his vision and he let his head droop, with his last sliver of consciousness, Shawn thought: _I'm still going to live, though. I'm, like, thirty-three percent sure. But that's as low as I'm going. _

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	6. Nineteen: Tears

**Psych is not mine.**

**Prompt Nineteen: Tears. I needed an excuse for cliche Shawn-and-Jules-ness. Hooray!**

Juliet hasn't cried yet, but she's sure the storm will come. Right now, though, she feels numb. Like she's really, really cold. _If I focus on numbness, _she tells herself, _I won't have to think about it. I won't have to think about Shawn. _

The problem is, he's everywhere. Or, more appropriately, Shawn the person is now nowhere, but reminders of him lurk in the corners of Juliet's vision no matter what she looks at.

_That was Shawn's favorite shirt. _

_There's that smoothie place he was meaning to go. _

_Lassiter has no nicknames now. _

And the longer she waits to think about it, it only gets worse.

_Why are people laughing? Nothing's funny without Shawn._

_Shawn didn't get a chance to eat this cupcake._

_This jacket smells like Shawn. _

A couple days after _it _happens, Juliet finds herself at the police office. People look surprised to see her, but they look too embarrassed, or possibly guilty, to say anything.

After wandering around aimlessly for a little bit, she runs into Woody. He grins at her when he sees her, seemingly unaware of the misery obvious on her face.

"Hey, Jules," he calls, not noticing her flinch when he speaks Shawn's nickname for her. He looks around furtively, then whispers, "Listen, I need your advice on something."

"Sure," she says. She might as well be some use to someone.

"So," he says, "I was going through Shawn's pockets the other day, figuring, you know, if he had a few nickels he wasn't going to miss them-"

"That's illegal." says Juliet. When Woody looks at her blankly, she says, "Isn't that what you wanted advice on?"

Woody scoffs. "Nah, I always do that. No, what I wanted your advice on was this." He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out a little red case. "I found this in his pocket, and I was, like, wondering-"

But Juliet has stopped listening. There's an irresistible force dragging her hands towards the little red velvet case. She's snatched it from Woody's grip before she knows what she's doing.

Hands trembling, she pries it open. Inside, where she knew it would be, sits a silver ring. She can tell without touching it that it would fit her perfectly.

Woody found it in Shawn's pocket. Shawn was on his way to a date with Juliet when he was attacked. Which means. . . Which means. . .

Woody breaks off suddenly as Juliet's eyes fill with tears and she turns and rushes off. Still, he might mention, clutching the little velvet case.

He frowns after her, trying to puzzle out why she's so upset. What could have happened? Did he say something?

Shrugging, Woody dismisses it, concluding that he'll never understand women. Or anyone, really. He sighs, dramatically. (Just in case anyone was listening.) _Oh well, _he thinks, when no one rushes to his side to ask what provoked such a deep sigh. _Better get back to picking through Shawn's pockets. _

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